Soft Target - Ch. 1
Not technically Zemo x reader, but so close they could kiss.
Thank you all for your interest in the teaser! Here we go! For real this time!
My muse is an asshole - interaction (likes, comments, reblogs, etc.) helps keep the Imposter Syndrome in its hole.
Summary: Their friendship failed before it ever got off the ground, but Sam still turns to her when they need a lead. When things go sideways, she shares more than is safe with a very, very dangerous man.
Chapter warnings: Language, violence, implied intent to assault (not by Zemo), Bucky being a damsel in distress
What was she doing?
She smelled blood – oozing through Bucky’s bandage in the backseat. She tasted it, too – leaking from her ravaged lower lip. Over the three-hour drive, she’d chewed it to pieces, peeling the flesh away in ribbons as she guessed and second guessed until her stomach warped and twisted like a separate animal, ready to pop out Alien-style and run for the hills.
There was no time to think and no room for error. They needed safe haven and she could give it to them, but if anything went wrong, it would cost her everything. She wasn’t willing to pay that. Not for their lives. Not even for her own. The two men in the backseat didn’t bother her. For all the grief between them, neither Sam nor Bucky would ever use this against her. They respected boundaries and operated under moral guidelines. The third man… not so much. She didn’t know him. Didn’t trust him. So, what was she doing?
She speared Zemo with a glare from the corner of her eye. He looked back innocently, face cool and still as a reflection pool, ready to echo and absorb every barb and compliment. Keep it. Weaponize it when the old words and feelings would deal the greatest damage. She’d seen how elegantly he picked at Sam and Bucky. What would he do with the leverage they hurtled towards?
She couldn’t do it.
Punching the emergency flashers and tapping the brakes, she pulled onto the shoulder, only giving the startled grumbles and exclamations from America’s heroes half an ear.
“What’s happening?”
“Is something wrong?”
Her hands clenched around the wheel. A deep breath in, eyes on the horizon – not on any of the men in the car and the drama they inflicted on an otherwise peaceful week. The breath left, slow and steady. Another in. Another out.
Sam, at least, seemed to have caught on to the situation and dealt with Bucky’s concerns. “Give her a minute. Everything’s fine.” He stared at her through the rearview mirror until her eyes shifted to meet his in the glass. “Everything’s fine.”
Everything was not, in fact, fine. Not at all. But she knew what he meant. And she nodded to thank him and assuage his own anxieties as she hunted through her thoughts for a solution. She needed… action? Proof? She needed to be sure. Beyond all doubt.
“I can drive if you need a moment to breathe,” the third man – Zemo – volunteered.
A last, deep breath.
“Out of the car.”
His brow furrowed in deep confusion. “I do not understand.”
Sam piped up from the back. “Triss, we can’t just –”
“Just Zemo,” she clarified.
“Have I somehow offended you?” He sounded incredulous, annoyed, but very well-mannered about it.
Rolling her eyes, she unclipped her seatbelt and popped open her door. “I just need a word. We’ll be right back, Sam.”
She checked for passing traffic before clambering out. The lonely stretch of state highway offered nothing but a single semi-truck, and she had plenty of time to close her door and move to the front of the car before it rushed by. Her hair flew around her eyes in streaks of blue, and she closed her them against the concussive force of the wind and noise. Once the truck passed, she looked up to see Zemo, magically unruffled, waiting.
She wanted to clear her throat, stick her hands in her pockets, or otherwise submit to her nervous habits. This conversation required a strong front, though. He had to know she meant what she said, and he needed to fear for her continued utility should he refuse.
“Before we go any farther,” she said. “You need to swear something to me. And you need to swear to me on something that fucking matters.”
He blinked, and his eyebrows pinched together. “May I ask to what I am swearing?”
For all her deep breaths, she felt like she was gasping as she explained. “You will not hurt anyone where we’re going. You will not fuck with them. You will not use them. They are not leverage, or pawns, or collateral. When we leave, you should do your best to forget you ever went there. And you should definitely forget the way.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but she wasn’t finished, and she wanted more than air behind his words.
“Whatever vendetta you have with Bucky, or Sam, or me – it has nothing to do with the place or people ahead. Now or ever.”
When he’d tried to answer before, his mouth never quite closed. It gave him a slightly puzzled look, and she knew he was playing chess in his mind, looking for the move that followed this one, seeking the treasured piece he’d overlooked.
As she lifted her hand, palm up, he finally understood.
“Swear it,” she repeated. “In the only way I’ll believe.”
To his credit, he didn’t gulp. He paused, though, staring down at her skin with an unreadable expression. He’d seen enough over the past two days to know what she was asking. In theory, at least.
“Just think the words,” she said. He needed to do this before she lost her nerve and started shaking. “I’ll hear you, and I’ll feel what you really mean. A quick touch is all I need, and I won’t see any more than that.”
He must remember how vehemently she’d refused to touch others at Sam and Bucky’s pleading. The refusal that served as their introduction. Doubtless, he had a lot to hide. All of that, her ethics included, mattered less than what she had to protect. If he couldn’t do this, she’d think of another place to hide while Bucky healed from the slash that nearly cut him in half. It wouldn’t be as safe, or clean, or good, but they’d all just have to make due.
“Zemo.” His eyes lifted to hers, though his face remained angled down. “Please.”
The gravel crunched under his feet as he adjusted his stance, and he looked away for a long moment to study their surroundings. Fields and trees filled the distance. Queen Anne’s lace and cornflowers bloomed along the verge. No farmhouses sat on the hills, and no voices apart from birds and cicadas carried on the wind. There weren’t even enough passing cars to hail as a hitchhiker. He was stranded, and although she’d given him a choice, he didn’t have many reasonable options.
His gaze returned to her face with that placid expression, and he pressed the tips of his fingers into her palm.
I swear on the names of my family.
And she felt how it mattered. Warm sentiment that blistered like acid, unshakable loyalty, and a willingness to burn the whole world down to avenge them. Yes, it mattered. No, he’d never dishonor their names by breaking his oath.
No. He was not happy about it, and his anger was a dark, dark thing.
She pulled away after the briefest flash of contact, determined to keep her own promise and pry no deeper than she absolutely had to.
“Thank you.”
He nodded, eyes a little harder than they’d been before, and she wished she could express her gratitude the way she could understand others’. He’d just have to believe her. Or not. That wasn’t up to her. They climbed back into the car, and the peanut gallery remained blissfully silent. She knew Sam would have opinions about her performance. He could see through the windshield what she’d done. Maybe Bucky was resting. Or maybe he didn’t care.
Breathing easier, but keeping a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, she turned off the blinkers and moved back onto the road.
No one had anything clever to say for the next thirty minutes, as they peeled off the highway and onto narrow backroads. No one commented as the trees grew thicker and the potholes more frequent, though she caught all of them looking out the windows with greater attention when the fields petered out. No one spoke when she pulled onto a private drive, followed it through the woods and entered a broad clearing. Two houses stood in the sunny space, one as much relic as house, the other only new in comparison to the first.
Home.
She turned off the engine.
Silence.
But not for long.
Two other cars sat parked in the gravel, and she knew what that meant. A full house, and this late in the afternoon, everyone would be home.
She puffed out her cheeks and looked at the three men, each in turn. Hands rising to tangle in her hair, she said, “Best behavior. All of you.”
A dog barked from inside the newer, larger house. They’d been spotted. Any second now, hell would break loose. Best to meet it on her own two feet, outside of the car. She climbed free, and the two men able to stand mirrored her, stepping out on the other side of the little sedan.
The screen door flew open and into the siding as two streaks of screaming energy blasted across the yard and into her chest.
“Auntie B!”
They hit hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs and push her back against the car door. She felt the entire vehicle rock with the force of it. Neither child shied from skin-to-skin contact, and dozens of excited, bubbling thoughts and feels assaulted her anxious mind.
“Oof!”
She had trouble separating words from ideas or expressions from feelings for a hot minute, and she didn’t realize she’d gained a third attachment until a chanting of B, B, B shouted through her skull. Fighting for air and sanity, she tried to hug them all and push them back, half breathless from the struggle.
“Triss?” Sam asked – low, smooth, and in a single syllable – what the fuck was happening.
She craned her head around just enough to see Zemo, standing on the other side of the car. He held her gaze, lips pressed thin as he analyzed the situation.
“This is my family.”
38 Hours Earlier
She’d been having a good day. She’d been having such a good day. It had been such a wonderful, uplifting, hopeful sort of afternoon, she didn’t immediately think the worst when Sam Wilson and James Barnes appeared at the bar. Sam had his friendly face on, the slightly strained one he wore when they first met. It probably meant trouble, but she was behind the bar – and she really had been enjoying her day – so her bartender smile lit up on instinct. Barnes looked less comfortable, his big, expressive mouth warring with a frown, so she decided to take the initiative and assume the burden of breaking the ice.
“Would you like an old fashioned?” she asked him, leaning down on her elbows with a shit-eating grin. “Or an old fashioned?”
He rolled his eyes, but while the tension lingered in his shoulders, the frown stopped yanking at his face. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” She looked between the two men, surprised to see them together but still expecting something good from the universe.
She should’ve known better.
“It’s good to see you again,” Sam said. A polite opener.
And probably bullshit. Years of work taught her how to read a man who wanted something. Whatever drew them to Manhattan – together – it wasn’t just drinks. Or an attempt to make good on Steve’s introduction, she guessed.
While the smile stayed on her face, her optimism cracked. Familiar doubt and disappointment leaked through the gaps, happy to drown her good mood. Her hopes had yet to fail entirely, but she knew. If it was good to see her, he would’ve made some kind of effort before this. If he was really seeking a friendship of some kind, he wouldn’t begin by trying to establish they already had one.
Sam pressed ahead, unaware he’d lost the edge in the coming fight. “We need your help.”
“I’m at work.”
She’d been practicing for moments like this, learning how to say no. This would test her mettle though. Sam was good at what he did, and he talked people into and out of trouble for a living.
“Sorry.” And he actually sounded like he meant it. “But we only have your work address.”
Her smile turned Midwestern – flat and polite, nearly apologetic. “I gave you my cell number, though. What’s so important you had to ambush me at my job?”
He didn’t have an immediate answer, and Bucky’s uneasy shift to look over his shoulder told her things Sam hadn’t. Bucky didn’t choose to come here. He didn’t want to see her or ask for her help. That could mean he’d paid better attention, that he expected her refusal. Or he could just be an old man feeling old man ways about things.
She took the opportunity to start making the old fashioned she’d promised. Whether or not either of them drank it was nothing to her.
Well.
That wasn’t true. Her professional pride would be hurt if they didn’t enjoy it.
Her two coworkers started sending her looks, and a few customers tried getting her attention around the two men. Whether she caved or not, this conversation needed to be put on hold.
“Look,” she nodded to the back corner, where a gaggle of grad students had just evacuated a booth. “I’ll talk to you on my break. Seriously. I’m at work.”
She slid the old fashioned to Barnes across the bar, and he caught it through instinct, even though he’d barely been paying attention. “On the house. Go away. Sit. Stay. Whatever.”
To his credit, Sam followed her order. A polite nod, and he disengaged. Barnes hesitated with a question on his lips, eyes moving between his friend and the girl at the bar, but in the end, he followed Sam with his own nod as he retreated. At least he took the damn drink.
She lifted her fingers to her face, briefly exploring the frown she’d grown. When did that get there? Fuck. She’d been having such a good day.
A third man joined Steve’s old friends in the booth – and she realized he’d been the thing halving Barnes’ attention. He looked like money, and she disliked him on principle. The tips men like him offered rarely compensated for the aggravation. More than one asshole tried paying his way out getting bounced after groping the staff, or breaking furniture, or asking a bartender to run an errand. She wondered what the three men had in common and what brought them to her place of work without a call.
Her mood continued to sour.
Bottles, shakers, and spoons moved through her hands in a glittering parade as drink after drink came together for thirsty strangers and regulars crowding the old wooden bar. A professional smile masked the churning frustration, proof of her charade gathering in the tip jar.
Six months. Why did they have to ruin one of her good days? She had plenty of bad ones; she might even enjoy the distraction on one of those. She’d been less than enthused to see Steve again, but he’d been so insistent, and he looked so damn hopeful as he introduced her to his two friends, recently returned from dust. Then he left. And that was that. She thought it was over. Apparently not.
An hour ticked by, and customers started going home. It was a weeknight. Some people had places to be in the morning, though enough lingered to justify keeping the doors open, and night owls and tourists kept trickling in from establishments down the street.
She kept glancing towards the booth, where the three men sat in sullen silence punctuated with arguments. Although distance and the low thrum of music from the bar’s overhead speakers muted them, they looked like an old married couple fighting – too stuck in habit and necessity to split, but too far from the honeymoon to care for the relationship.
They looked back, sometimes, and she always turned away first. She didn’t need a staring contest to assert herself here. She was a bartender. She was behind the bar. A mere glance towards the bouncer would send them packing. A tempting thought. They’d wait to talk until she’d done her time and ensured she had rent covered for the month.
And then a new asshole joined the party.
He stormed in the bar like a man on a mission. Never a great start. Bros with the muscles and haircut he sported came to bars to relax, play the pick-up artist, or pick a fight – and he didn’t look like he wanted to relax. His march led him straight to the bar when his initial sweep of the place failed to deliver… whatever he was looking for. As he approached, she couldn’t help noting the recessed booth where her three unwanted guests lurked wasn’t visible from the door. She’d sent them there because it was out of the way. Was that decision about to bite her?
The big man – all buzz cut and undersized t-shirt – grabbed her arm as she reached to retrieve an empty glass. She froze. Her thoughts had a counterpoint, and it was loud.
Angry and afraid: her feelings.
Angry and looking to hurt someone: his feelings.
A few faces flickered across his surface thoughts, and she recognized them all. He’d followed Steve’s friends through Manhattan, despite obvious efforts to throw a tail.
Well. At least they’d tried.
“You should really let go of my arm,” she said, softly, like a firm suggestion.
That amused him, and his thoughts went very dark.
“Oh yeah?” He smiled. “I’m looking for some people. Seen three guys come in here? Leave through a back door maybe?”
He wondered what sounds she’d make if he crushed her arm in his fist, what sounds she’d make if he broke her apart in other ways.
Retrieving the glass with her free hand, she subtly signaled Jack, the bouncer, and tucked the dirty dish in the bin under behind the bar. The hand flexed on her arm, and she brought up a fresh glass as Jack made his way across the room, and she began pouring her favorite overproof rum.
“Only one door for patrons. Haven’t been keeping tabs on numbers. If you don’t see them, they’re not here.”
The man’s head was a mess, and she caught glimpses of lots of things she’d rather not see along with things that may be useful in solving this mess as his attention fluttered. She wouldn’t be the first girl behind a bar he’d hurt. Too bad he couldn’t go to the Clover anymore. So close to base and all – Maybe after they took care of the snooping problem he could –
“Hey.” Jack put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Time to go, pal.”
She returned the rum to its place and slipped her hand back under the counter. She felt bad for Jack, but she needed the distraction.
The stranger – well, not a stranger to her anymore – backhanded the bouncer hard enough to send him flying the length of the bar. Patrons jumped up, shouting, as some ran for the exit and some looked for an excuse to join the fight.
While the big man watched his target crash through a table, she whipped out the sturdy pairing knife she used for lemons and limes. She drove it clean through her assailant’s wrist and into the bar. The pain surprised him. It wasn’t great secondhand, either, sparking across the connection, but he released his grip, and she pressed her attack. Both hands free, she hurled the glass of rum in his face, and as he instinctively tried wiping it out of his eyes with his free hand, she thumbed the wheel of the bar’s lighter. She snarled, hurling it after the alcohol. The instant the sparks met his soaked shirt, he burst into flames. He howled, flailing to put out the fire dancing over his chest, arms, face.
A metal arm swung from behind, into the side of his skull. The party of three had returned to close their tab. The crack echoed as two more big men with bad haircuts kicked through the very open and innocent door. They looked pissed.
Sam vaulted over the bar, the third wheel from the booth slipping under the bar hatch as Bucky hurled the – still flaming – assailant towards the new threats.
“We need to go,” Sam shouted. He didn’t touch her, but his arms hovered in a vaguely protective fashion, herding her towards the back door.
She didn’t need to be told twice. By the time Bucky swung across the bar top to join them, she’d pushed through to the little hallway that led to the employee bathrooms, breakroom, and back entrance. She didn’t have to stop as she yanked her bag and coat from the hook on the wall, suddenly glad for the bar’s poor security for personal effects. Her bag was more backpack than purse. It hung heavy with all the things she needed most, including her laptop and a change of clothes. Just in case, she’d always told herself. Just in case, for whatever reason, you have to run.
Her paranoia had paid off, and she hated it.
Smoggy spring air full of car exhaust and the tempting smells of the Italian restaurant across the alley welcomed them on the other side of the door. She gulped it in, wondering if she’d ever cringe over the mix again the wee hours of the morning.
No. Of course not. Someone thought she’d be useful, and another chapter of her life closed.
As the men piled out behind her, she turned to Sam, arms half-raised at her sides, asking as much with her body as her words what happened next.
“Looks like I’m involved,” she said. “Where are we going?”
The third man took point, politely gesturing towards the north end of the alley even as he stepped forward to guide them. “The car is this way.”
As she let herself be pulled along in the tide of trouble crashing around the three men, dimly aware of how useless it would be to say no, she could only – desperately – remember: it had been such a good day.
Chapter 2: Link
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